


The Christmas Tree Decorator

by JayEz



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: 00Q Secret Santa 2016, Alternate Universe, Awesome Eve Moneypenny, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas, Die Hard References, Holiday Fic Exchange, Holidays, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 21:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8940787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayEz/pseuds/JayEz
Summary: James Bond, a famous tree decorator flying all across the globe to indulge the whims of wealthy individuals and shopping centres, agrees to do one last job before the holidays.Obviously, it goes awry.A not-a-Double-Oh!Bond meets Die Hard AU.
  [due to real-life circumstances, all my fanfics are officially on hiatus]





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roseforthethorns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseforthethorns/gifts).



> Happy Holidays to everyone, and especially to you, Cait <3 I’m your Secret Santa and I sincerely hope you enjoy reading this little fic as much as I enjoy writing it! 
> 
> My endless thanks to [Iriya](archiveofourown.org/users/iriya) for working her beta-ing superpowers on this as well as offering a title. 
> 
> In my usual manner, I have failed to come up with something short and simple. Thus, I present the first part to this holiday-themed fic. I promise to add the second part as soon as my Muse permits, hopefully during/after the holidays.  
>  **[Edit 06-2017: due to real-life circumstances, all my fanfics are officially on hiatus]**

“James?”

 _Bollocks._ He knows this tone. 

“No.”

“Will you let me finish?” 

Heaving a sigh, James places the delicate ornament on the branch of the large Christmas tree and turns on his ladder to meet Eve’s defiant eyes. 

“I’m in the middle of something, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, believe me, people can see this from outer space,” Eve says, sparing the obnoxiously pink decorations a decidedly underwhelmed glance. 

James bristles. Yes, this client’s tastes are atrocious, but James is the best and thus will manage to create the most impressive pink Christmas tree the year of 2016 has ever seen. 

“Wipe that scowl off your face,” Eve continues. “You have another client. Palo Alto, this time.”

That gives him pause. “It’s 23rd December. We’re in Shanghai. You of all people should be well aware of that.”

“I am. I also stated the obvious to said client, but he’s sending one of his jets tonight, promises to have us back home on Christmas Day, and pays double your usual fee. _Double_ , James,” Eve repeats, as though pushing 40 means James’s hearing is becoming impaired. 

“And you want another Christmas bonus.”

“I want a ‘Here, Eve, let’s start a trust fund for my unborn niece or nephew’ bonus.” 

Oh, the pregnancy card. James never wins against that particular hand. 

“Fine,” he concedes, turning back to the task at hand. “But I’m not explaining to your fiancé why you’re on yet another plane.” 

Eve’s laugh fills the lobby. “When did I ever think former Naval officers were tough blokes?”

James huffs and tosses a ball of artificial snow in her direction instead of pointing out that Bill’s ‘I know your deepest secrets’ stare would scare the Devil himself. 

The snow hits Eve’s protruding stomach and gets tangled with the yarns of her jumper. She arches an eyebrow. 

“Or mature, for that matter.”

James aims his most charming smile her way and pointedly hangs another pink figurine. If he were mature, he’d have taken a desk job instead of obsessing over the best tactic to tackle a twelve-metre Christmas tree. 

Eve’s thoughts seem to mirror his own for she gives another laugh and walks off, already swiping at her phone. 

*

James has seen every shade of luxury available on the global palette, from the lavish residences of Arabian princes to the spacious apartments of big city dwellers where every square centimetre speaks of wealth. 

Cordero Tower in Palo Alto, California, falls somewhere in the middle. The futuristic glass and steel construction is but one element of the Cordero campus covering the Bayfront Park south of the 84 Expressway and is by far not the only building with a helipad, yet it is their client’s home.

“Butler or maid?” James asks Eve. “Chap like Cordero… I’m saying butler.”

Placing wagers is the only way James can cope with being in a position where obscenely rich people think they need to pander to him. Being served by someone’s staff still makes James deeply uncomfortable. Kincade always chortles in unabashed glee at having nailed his charge’s feet firmly onto the ground whenever he hears James complain. 

Eve hums thoughtfully as the jet begins its descent on top of the building. 

“I’m not so sure. He might surprise you.”

“The third-richest person in the world?” James snorts. “I highly doubt that.”

The man greeting them on the rooftop once they disembark, however, is definitely not the butler. For one, he is wearing grease-stained overalls. 

“Mister Bond, so glad you could squeeze me in on such short notice! Sorry for the stains, been in the workshop all day – only just got the reminder that you’re arriving or I would’ve changed. And showered. And told my spouses about you, but I did build an automatic hoover decades ago, so it’s not that bad that the tree’s shedding like crazy and now our living room looks more like it did after I decided to programme HAL to bake Christmas cookies.” 

James blinks as his brain catches up with the man’s monologue, translating ‘cookies’ to ‘biscuits’. He chances a glance at Eve whose eyes clearly read, ‘You were saying?’ 

“Señor Cordero, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Cordero waves a hand at him with a quick, “Call me Rafael” thrown half over his shoulder as he bows to Eve with a flourish. “Miss Moneypenny. You are even more radiant than I imagined from our phone call.”

Cordero leads them five floors down via lift, shows them to their guest rooms – suites, rather – and takes them back up three floors to the living room with an apologetic expression. 

“I know it’s a rush job, but when Q let slip that he’s never had a tree or a real Christmas, I couldn’t just let that stand. Made some ornaments, but I’m shit at decorating – Beth says I lack the patience, Matt says it’s the talent… Anyway, I’ve got the ornaments down in the workshop but there should be some boxes with stuff Miss Moneypenny told me we’d need – who knew there’re so many types of decorations? Should really look into that market; tinkering with the orbs was fun, seriously. Be right back, folks – drinks in the kitchen around that corner!”

The last part is shouted from the hallway since Rafael Cordero is apparently a squirrel on cocaine in disguise of an adult male. 

James turns on his heels and crosses his arms. “Explain,” he orders. 

Eve’s smile is definitely smug. “Rafael called yesterday because his protégé – that would be Q, don’t ask me if it’s short for anything since I’m not, in fact, omniscient – hasn’t had a real Christmas yet. He’s a fellow orphan,” she adds as a side note. “Since Rafael wants everything to be perfect he’s doing what every CEO of a billion dollar company would do.”

“Throw money at the problem,” James fills in. 

Eve nods. “He found out you’re the best of the best, got hold of my number and offered double your usual rate right from the start.”

“And I really wanted to dislike the chap.”

“I know,” Eve says, patting his arm with a smirk. “I’m so sorry there are still decent people in the world.”

If the woman wasn’t carrying his godson (or goddaughter), James would have shoved her. As it is, he merely gives her a hard look and steps forward to inspect the monstrous tree more closely. 

*

The secret of James’s success as a decorator, he muses, is due to how he approaches the problem. He relies on either immense tactical planning or his knack for functioning well under pressure. 

And James has always done his best work when pressed for time. 

“It’s beautiful,” Beth gushes. She is Rafael’s wife. 

“Truly breathtaking,” Matt agrees. He is Rafael and Beth’s husband. 

James thought he had seen it all. 

“And so quick, too!” Rafael adds, beaming at the display in front of him. 

The orbs he crafted are emitting a pale blue light. Paired with the white snow and additional accessories in other shades of blue, the tree does cut a dashing figure.

“Well, your flight home isn’t for another three hours and there’s a Christmas company party downstairs still in full swing, so there’s no way you can decline my invitation.”

James makes to argue, but a promise of a buffet and Eve’s, “We’d love to!” mean he is overruled. So he showers, dons a suit, and joins the crowd on the lowest three floors of Cordero Tower. 

Usually, James enjoys such events. He likes observing other guests, practice his small talk skills for the next tedious gala he receives an invite to, and indulge in the free drinks. However, in the wake of his busiest season yet, James just feels drained. He doubts he is going to survive long enough to board their jet for Great Britain.

“Either you’re as bored as I am or you have a peculiar fascination for Romanticist painters.”

The male – and surprisingly British – voice does not startle James. He saw the other man approach from the corner of his eye and cursed himself for not finding a more secluded spot on the uppermost floor. 

“Pardon?” 

The chap – slender, relatively tall, dressed in cotton trousers and a maroon cardigan, with a mop of dark hair that looks like it resists the power of a comb with all its might – glances towards the wall. 

It holds several prints, unframed, placed on top of each other to create a collage of clashing artistic movements spanning the entire wall. James is closest to a Turner piece he recognises because it adorned the office of his commander back during his Navy days.

The other man hums. “Bored, then.” 

James feels his lips twitch. “Tired, actually.”

“The pre-holiday rush seems to have that effect. Of course, you presumably have the luxury of taking a holiday, which might make it all seem worthwhile.”

“And you don’t?”

The bloke tilts his head at James. His hands are holding what looks like a tablet. 

“You don’t work here.” 

It’s not a question, so James does not treat it as one. 

“How did you gain access to this building?” The tone is nonchalant but there is something in the man’s eyes that makes James weary. 

“Mr Cordero invited me. My jet is scheduled to leave in T minus 90 minutes.” 

“And if I asked Mr Cordero he would validate your statement, Mr…?”

“Bond. James Bond. And yes, he would,” James replies with his most innocuous smile. “Do you wish we seek him out, Mr…?”

“Q. Just Q.” 

_Bloody hell._

James has to bite his tongue to keep from swearing. Of course he would run into the one person who should not learn of his presence: the British orphan hacker that Rafael Cordero took under his wing instead of suing for his machinations. 

Fortunately, James has yet to mention anything of his profession. 

“Well, seeking him out would require venturing into the crowd again. I know of a quicker way.”

Q unlocks his tablet and a few tabs as well as one activated headset later – which James almost missed underneath those dark curls; they look soft – Q has verified James’s identity and his right to be in attendance. 

“I would not have pegged you for the head of Ortega’s security.”

The smile tugging at Q’s lips is decidedly smug. “My youth prompts many to underestimate me. I assure you I’m quite up to the task.”

His sneering tone rubs James the wrong way. “Youth is no guarantee of innovation,” he points out. 

“And age is no guarantee of efficiency,” Q shoots back, quick as a whip. He pushes his glasses up his nose and meets James’s eyes. “Jolly good the world is not that black and white, Mr Bond.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “The beauty of grey? Really?”

“I personally prefer rainbows, but blending black and white leaves one’s results rather limited.”

James barks a laugh at the smooth, albeit less-than-subtle way Q is making his preferences clear. His reaction seems to please the younger man, eliciting a genuine smile. James finds himself returning it a heartbeat later. 

“Would you like to go somewhere more private, Mr Bond?” 

The subtext is blatant, as is the chemistry between them. His inner clock tells James he has ample time to really enjoy this job, so he smirks at Q. 

“Lead the way.” 

They are in the lift riding up to the private floors when the tower’s electricity cuts out and Q scrambles to access the secondary CCTV grid that runs on back-up generators… only to reveal the last thing James expected from this trip. 

A group of masked men, aimed with machine guns, rounding up the party guests.


End file.
